


homecoming

by labeledbones



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-21
Updated: 2018-07-21
Packaged: 2019-06-14 01:18:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15377532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/labeledbones/pseuds/labeledbones
Summary: Timmy comes home to New York after The King wraps, reuniting with Armie. Angst, fluff, and even some sexy stuff ensues.





	homecoming

“I’ll pick you up at the airport,” Armie says over FaceTime. He’s doing sit ups in his dressing room, his phone propped on something in front of him. Timmy sees his face, flushed and sweating, and then he disappears, down on the floor, out of the camera’s view. 

Face, gone, face, gone. 

Timmy wants to ask him to stop, because he really hates that split second when he goes away. But he knows it’s pathetic how that breaks his heart so he doesn’t say anything.

Timmy tosses a shirt absently into his suitcase without bothering to fold it. “Don’t do that,” he says. “Bad idea.”

He’s thinking that there might be cameras, fans, generally just too many people. And he’s thinking that when he sees Armie again, he’s really going to need to kiss him.

“Okay,” Armie says, finally sitting up and staying up. His hair a sweaty mess. His face now very close to the screen. Timmy watches a drop of sweat slip down his temple, wants to taste it. 

“But can you meet me? When I get home?” He gives up on packing, deciding he can just do it in the morning before his flight. He drops down onto the bed and holds the phone up above him.

“Yes,” Armie says matching how eager Timmy feels. “Anywhere. When?” 

“I’ll text you when I’m in the car from the airport,” Timmy says. 

“Text me when you board, text me when you’re taking off, text me when you land, text me when you’re at baggage claim.” 

Timmy laughs, a hand over his mouth. “Stop,” he says, grinning. “I’ll text you when I’m in the car.” 

Armie is quiet. He’s still sitting on the floor of his dressing room, resting his face agains this knees. “I’ve missed you,” he says. 

Timmy shakes his head. “Try being in a foreign country with no friends or family.” 

Armie’s eyebrows come together. “No friends?” 

“Okay, some friends,” Timmy says. Because of course he’s good at making friends and he’s been going out with his costars and having fun, but — “No close friends though. No one who gets it, gets me.” 

How tired he is just from being around people who don’t know him well, from having to explain himself at every turn. “I feel like I’ve been pretending to be someone else for months.” 

Armie laughs warmly. “That’s kind of the gig, Timmy.” 

Timmy shoots him a look but he’s smiling. “You know what I mean.” 

“Yeah,” Armie nods. “I do.” 

Timmy looks around the bare hotel room he’s been living in the last few weeks. Furniture that isn’t his. Art on the walls that isn’t his. His entire life ready to be shoved into two suitcases. 

Saoirse told him once that this was sometimes the loneliest job in the world, and she was right. When he’d asked her how he was supposed to fight that, she’d shrugged and said, “Just makes sure you have your people.” 

For Saoirse, that means her mom, her dog Fran, Greta, her best friend from Ireland. For Timmy, that mostly means Armie. 

“Tomorrow,” he says. 

“Tomorrow,” Armie echoes. 

*****

 _in the car_ , he texts as soon as the door is closed. 

He hadn’t been able to sleep on the plane and his body is still heavy with exhaustion. At the same time, his nerves are humming at such a high frequency he feels like he might lift right off the ground. 

_[a string of eggplant emojis] where should i meet you? i’m already there_ , Armie texts back within ten seconds. 

Timmy grins, tilting his head against the car window.

_can we just meet at my parents’ place?_

_very high school. yes. see you there._

Timmy looks out at New York blurring by him. He’s lived here his entire life, but this feels more like a homecoming than any other time he’s come back after being away. 

He calls his mom and confirms that neither she nor his dad is home yet, feeling like he’s 16 again trying to sneak a girl in after school. 

He shoots Armie another text: _parents not home. we’re in the clear._

_i was kind of warming up to the idea of making you come with your mom in the next room._

_stop._

_that little breathy whine you do when you think you’re being quiet about it._

_STOP._

_my hand over your mouth to get you to shut up._

_are you trying to make me come before i even get there?_

_yes._

_fuck you._

_i’m trying!_

Timmy laughs too loudly and the driver looks up at him in the rear view mirror before looking back at the road. When Timmy knows for sure he’s not looking, he grips his already half hard cock through his sweatpants, thinks about Armie’s throat, his thighs. His head drops back against the head rest. 

_i’m still in fucking queens_ , he texts.

_well i’m waiting outside your building._

_don’t. people will see you._

_who?_

_i don’t know? stalkers? paparazzi? go into the starbucks at least._

The next text he gets is a picture of a Starbucks cup with the name ‘Oliver’ on it. _happy?_

Timmy shakes his head. _bad fake name._

_what? why?_

_you think a barista in fucking hell’s kitchen isn’t going to see right through an armie hammer lookalike using the name oliver for his coffee?_

_he gave me his number actually._

_no he didn’t._

_you’re right. he didn’t. you’re being very paranoid today._

Timmy realizes that he’s right. Of course Armie’s right. Timmy’s been on edge since he was boarding his flight this morning: worried he’d left something behind, double checking his gate number even as he was looking at his flight information on the board, refreshing his email over and over. 

He slept fitfully for about 20 minutes on the plane before he gave up and watched the map for the rest of the flight, sitting forward in his seat, his face too close to the screen, watching as the dot representing him inched closer and closer to the dot representing New York, home, Armie. 

_i know. i’m anxious._

_why?_

_no idea._

But really it’s: What if it’s not the same between them now? What if they can’t just pick it back up again? What if Armie is disappointed when he sees him? 

His fingers itch for a cigarette. 

_that’s stupid. don’t be anxious._

_doesn’t really work like that._

_i know. i’m sorry. listen just don’t think about anything but getting here. we’ll deal with whatever else as it happens. right now just sit there and let the driver bring you here. that’s all you have to do._

_we’re in the tunnel now._

He closes his eyes in the dim light and takes a long breath in through his nose and out through his mouth. He does this over and over until the sunlight is back on his face, until his eyes open on familiar block after familiar block. 

He’s been gone for three months, but it feels like ten years. When the driver turns onto 43rd, he wants to jump out of the car and run the rest of the way. Instead he sits there with his heart rattling around as they inch through midtown traffic towards 9th avenue.

He gets another text: _i see you._

****

The apartment door closes behind them and Timmy instantly turns, drops his bags onto the ground, and drapes his arms heavily around Armie’s neck. He pushes his face against Armie’s neck and breathes him in like he’s been without air for a month. He smells like cigarettes and sun and a cologne Timmy doesn’t recognize. He reaches his tongue out to taste his skin. He lets his entire body rest against Armie’s, their hips locking together. 

He expects Armie to laugh, but he doesn’t laugh. He just holds onto Timmy, his arms tight around Timmy’s waist. 

He holds him and holds him and holds him there in the foyer. 

“I fucking missed you so much,” Armie says, pressing his nose into Timmy’s hair. 

Timmy wants to respond, but doesn’t know what to say. He missed him too, but there’s more than that in his head right now, too many things he’ll need to say to him later that he can’t figure out how to say right now. So he just tilts his head back and kisses Armie on the mouth. 

Armie gets his hands on both sides of Timmy’s face and deepens their kiss, takes control right when Timmy is on the verge of abandon. The shift of power, the feeling of giving himself over, putting himself in Armie’s hands, makes him groan deep in the back of his throat. Armie’s fingers are splayed on the back of his head, pressing into his scalp, and it’s been too long since he’s had someone else take over for him, since he could just not think about what he has to do next. 

“My bedroom,” he manages to mumble into Armie’s mouth, an arm flailing behind him in the general direction of his room. 

“Thought I might take you right here,” Armie says, pressing Timmy into the wall, the corner of a framed family portrait from Disneyland digging into his shoulder. 

“Fuck,” is all Timmy can manage to get out as Armie’s hand slips under his waistband, finds him hard. 

“You said no parents, right?” He grins against Timmy’s mouth and Timmy licks that grin, bites at his bottom lip. 

Armie still has his hand in Timmy’s pants, just holding his cock, and Timmy pushes his hips up seeking friction, pressure, anything. Armie laughs, his mouth now on Timmy’s jaw, teeth and tongue leaving their mark. He squeezes Timmy just once and pulls his hand back. 

Timmy deflates against the wall and looks up at him, panting. “Wha—” is all he gets out, verbal communication failing him once again. 

“I changed my mind,” Armie says, stepping back, leaning against the wall opposite Timmy. And now Timmy comes fully back to himself. The anxiety he’d felt earlier settles in his stomach again. This is what he’d feared. That they would try again and it wouldn’t work, wouldn’t feel the same. That Armie wouldn’t want Timmy they same way he’d wanted him months earlier. 

He feels himself on the verge of crying and bites down hard on the inside of his cheek. 

But Armie is still smiling softly, and he takes a step toward Timmy and touches his face, his thumb resting in the slight dip of Timmy’s chin. “You know I still love you, right?” 

Timmy’s knees almost give out with relief, with that sharp sensation of being understood completely by Armie, so easily read by him. 

“Tell me you know that,” Armie says, an edge to his voice. Tenderness bordering on frustration. 

Timmy manages to nod in response, because he does know, but he’d been worried he was wrong. 

Armie kisses him, softly this time, less urgency, just his mouth against Timmy’s mouth. Timmy puts his arms around him and they kiss like that, slowly and aimlessly, Timmy leaning back against the wall, Armie leaning into Timmy. The apartment filled with only the sound of the air conditioner and the sound of their mouths meeting over and over. Timmy thinks he wants to die this way, right here in this moment. He has never known anything as good as being kissed by Armie. 

“Show me your room,” Armie whispers, his mouth leaving Timmy’s just enough to get the words out. 

Timmy nods, reaching up for one more kiss before taking his hand and leading him down the hall. 

****

Timmy stands in the doorway while Armie circles around the small bedroom, taking everything in. 

The room hasn’t changed much in the years since Timmy’s been moving in and out: the same books on the shelf along with video games and assorted action figures. The bulletin board over his dresser is still covered in pictures from high school, yellowing playbills from shows he’s seen (plus one from Prodigal Son which Armie touches the corner of gently, smiling, looking over his shoulder at Timmy), concert tickets, birthday cards. The bed is the same small double bed he’d grown up in, though his mom has thankfully long replaced the bedspread with soccer balls all over it with a conservative light grey comforter.

The physical and emotional size of Armie in this room overwhelms Timmy. Like Armie has stepped back into his childhood, has entered into his life at a completely different time, when he hadn’t been ready for someone like Armie, when the idea of love was still a dim light in the back of his mind, when you could have told him he would one day love a man he met while making a movie in Italy and he would have laughed hysterically for ten minutes. 

But while Timmy has difficulty reconciling the childhood spent in this bedroom with the person he is now standing here watching a man whose body he has mapped out with his tongue, he knows the two things do not, and could not, exist without each other. 

Everything in Timmy’s life brought him to Armie, and everything in his life has brought Armie here to this room. 

Armie turns to face him, standing by Timmy’s desk which is cleaner than it ever was when he was young: just a couple of art books and journals stacked neatly on the corner next to a lamp. 

“I love this,” Armie finally says. “I could spend hours going through all your stuff, finding out all your dirty little teenage secrets.”

Timmy blushes and finally steps fully into the room, sitting down on the bed. Armie strides over and sits next to him, their shoulders knocking together. 

“You’re quiet,” he says, reaching for Timmy’s hand. He brings it to his mouth, kisses each finger and then Timmy’s palm, his wrist. Then he holds it, their fingers twisting together. 

“Sorry,” Timmy says. “I think I’m just feeling…overwhelmed.” 

Armie nods. “I know you’ve gotta be exhausted.”

Timmy drops his head onto Armie’s shoulder, conceding his point. “I really want to be with you right now,” he says.

“You’re with me,” Armie says, running his thumb along the back of Timmy’s hand. 

Timmy turns into Armie and slips his free hand under the hem of his t-shirt, finding warm skin. He presses his palm flat against Armie’s stomach, the soft hair there, the in and out of his breathing. He leaves his hand resting against hard muscle, kisses Armie’s throat. 

“Can we just lie down together for a little while?” he asks in a quiet voice. 

Before Timmy can say anything more, Armie nods and moves to the floor, slipping Timmy’s sneakers from his feet, his socks, kissing both of his ankles. 

His instinct to take care of Timmy. Timmy’s instinct to be taken care of. 

Armie takes his own shoes off and stretches out next to Timmy on the bed. Timmy looks over at him and smiles, feeling a little foolish, feeling like he’s letting Armie down. “I’m sorry,” he says. 

“I’m not,” Armie shrugs. “You know I fucking love to nap.” 

Timmy laughs at him. “Come here,” he says, turning over onto his side and motioning for Armie to spoon against him. 

Armie presses his nose into the back of Timmy’s neck and is snoring before Timmy even closes his eyes. 

****

He dreams about Armie’s smile. The gleaming wide stretch of it, so bright it makes his head hurt, blinds him. He watches the smile stretch and stretch and stretch until Armie’s face cracks in half, shatters into a million pieces, into dust, into ash.

He is on his knees, sweeping the fragments of the smile into a dustpan, knowing this is his fault. He cannot get all of the pieces off of the floor. He sweeps and sweeps until his back and his knees are aching, but there are still bits of Armie’s smile, Armie’s face, blue flecks of his eyes, reddish tan crumbs of his cheeks, all over the floor. 

He is certain he will spend the rest of his life cleaning up broken pieces of Armie. 

He wakes up with his heart beating furiously. 

He wakes up alone. 

A note on the pillow: _I didn’t want to wake you up, but I had to go. You’re coming tonight, right? xoxoxo Armie_

He presses the note to his mouth, his nose. He turns and buries his face in the mattress where Armie had been.

He wonders if he’ll ever stop missing him. 

****

He calls Saoirse on the balcony, after going downstairs and across the street to buy cigarettes he shouldn’t be smoking. 

He is lighting his second when she picks up, saying his name warmly, affectionately, drawing out the vowels. 

“Hi,” he says, smiling. He doesn’t know where Saoirse came from or why he deserves her, but he will never stop being grateful for her. 

“I can tell you’re smoking and I hate it,” she says bluntly but her voice is still full of affection. 

“Me, too,” he says. “But it seems like the only thing that’ll get my nerves to stop fucking buzzing.” 

She makes a soft concerned sound and says, “I thought you and your man would be busy right about now.” 

“Yeah,” he says wryly. If his balcony were facing the opposite direction, he might be able to just make out the theater from here. “We got started but I just— I’m a wreck. So we took a nap together and when I woke up, he’d already left.” 

“He just left you?” she asks, immediately angry on his behalf. 

“He left a note. He has work, you know.” 

“You haven’t seen him in over three months and he leaves a note?” 

“Your outrage is comforting but it’s really not a big deal,” he says. “I’m the one who wanted to just nap with him when we should have been fucking our brains out.” 

Saoirse sighs. “Pony,” she says, her voice like a hand on his cheek. 

“It feels like we have to reboot the whole thing, you know? It’s not like we can just pick up where we left off.” 

His cigarette has burned down to his fingertips and he drops it into the rusty watering can that’s been left out on the balcony, unused, for ten years. 

“I don’t buy that.” 

“Maybe I’m different now,” he says, tossing the thought in casually, like it hasn’t been haunting him for the last three months. 

Saoirse snorts. “He loves you,” she says simply. “Not just some specific version of you.” 

He smiles. “Is that how it works?”

“That’s how it works,” she says. 

They sit silently on the phone together for a moment. Timmy wants to, but doesn’t light a third cigarette. He drops the rest of the pack into the watering can along with rainwater and his previously discarded butts. 

“Come with me tonight,” he says, breaking the silence. “To his show? Please?”

“Well,” Saoirse says. “Since you said please.” 

****

Saoirse nearly knocks him over when she hugs him outside his building. 

“I’m mad at you,” she says when she steps back, fake pouting.

“What? Why?” 

“You didn’t visit me once when you were in London!” She hits him lightly with her overly large purse. 

“Half the time you were here in the states!” He raises his hands defensively, laughing. “And the other half of the time you were in Ireland! That’s a whole different island, Sersh!” 

She considers this, but continues pouting. “You could have found a weekend to come over and have tea, meet Fran, stroll by the seaside.” 

He hooks his arm with hers and they start walking down the street. “We’ll plan a trip,” he says, pulling her against him. “A whole week, just the two of us, in Ireland. We can tell Greta it’s a cast bonding retreat.”

She looks up at him from behind her sunglasses, their lenses reflecting Timmy’s own face back at him twice. “I love that,” she says. “Though I think Greta knows we’re already pretty well bonded.” 

****

When they manage to get backstage, Armie greets Saoirse warmly, wrapping her up in a hug. 

“I’m his support animal,” Saoirse jokes, pointing an elbow at Timmy, making Armie crack up. 

Timmy stands in the corner of Armie’s dressing room, watching them, his cheeks burning, embarrassed but still happy to see the two great loves of his life happy together, smiling together. 

When they’re done laughing at his expense, Armie crosses the room and kisses Timmy on the cheek. “I am incredibly glad you’re here,” he says, kissing him on the mouth this time. 

Saoirse makes exaggerated gagging noises behind them. “I’ll just be getting a drink, then,” she says, excusing herself. 

“You’re okay?” Armie asks when the door closes behind her, stepping closer to Timmy. 

“I’m okay,” he says. “I wish you’d woken me up before you’d left though.”

“It seemed like you needed the sleep.” He touches Timmy’s face, his fingers stretching from Timmy’s cheekbone to his neck. 

“I probably did,” he agrees, not mentioning the restless dream he had. He reaches up on his toes to bring his mouth close to Armie’s. “But tonight,” he says before kissing him. 

Armie grins. “Yeah?” 

Timmy kisses him harder this time, deeper, with the hunger he’d been trying to hold onto earlier. Armie groans into his mouth, giving that hunger right back.

“I have to be on stage in fifteen minutes,” Armie whines. 

Timmy snakes a hand between them and presses his palm against Armie, feels him start to get hard. “I’ll be watching,” he says and slips out the door to find Saoirse. 

****

Saoirse hands him a drink when he sits down next to her. 

“Jack and Coke,” she answers before he can ask. There is hip hop music playing at an insane volume over the speakers and she has to practically yell this to him. 

“Bless you,” he says, and presses a kiss to her cheek.

“I don’t want to know where that mouth has just been,” she says, shrinking away from him. 

He laughs, feeling so much lighter than he has all day. He is here, in his city, with the people who love him most, who he loves the most. He struggles to remember what it was he’d been so worried about. 

But then Saoirse says, “So what’s the problem with you two exactly?” She is on Armie’s bio page in the playbill, holding it up to her face in the dark of the theater. 

He shakes his head, taking a sip of his drink. “Not a problem really,” he says, leaning into her ear so she can hear him. “I’m just overthinking everything.”

“Typical,” she says, rolling her eyes and smiling at him. 

****

When Armie comes out on stage, Timmy grabs Saoirse’s hand. He’s seen Armie work before, obviously, but not like this. There is something about seeing him on a stage, his size and his bright eyes, and his entire presence. Armie had been nervous about doing theater, calling Timmy with fears about forgetting lines, nobody buying tickets, being panned by critics, but he’s alive up there, more alive that Timmy’s seen him in a long time. 

This is Armie doing exactly what he was put on this planet to do and Timmy falls in love with him all over again, with every beat, every movement, every perfectly delivered line, every flash of pure joy on his face. 

This is Armie, he thinks. 

Timmy can feel Saoirse watching him watch Armie, and she squeezes his hand back. 

The minute Armie starts dancing on that stage, Timmy actually lets out a small squeak and grabs Saoirse’s arm with the hand that isn’t currently holding hers in a vise grip. 

Armie’s moves are ridiculous, incredible, over the top, and Timmy laughs from deep in his belly along with the rest of the audience. 

He’s danced with Armie a lot in the last two years, but Timmy knows dancing in a public way like this is still nerve wracking for him. Armie is the sort who loves to dance after a few drinks and when it’s late and he’s among friends and he can choose the song. He’s a good dancer, but would never actually admit that about himself.

Seeing Armie up there dancing so freely, in front of all these people, makes Timmy melt a little. He sends all of the good, warm, immense things he is feeling for Armie in the direction of the stage and hopes Armie can feel them. 

At the next scene change, Timmy drops his head onto Saoirse’s shoulder and whispers, “I love him,” and Saoirse whispers back, “Duh.” 

****

Saoirse leaves after the show, saying, “Call me,” very firmly as she hugs Timmy goodbye. 

Timmy makes his way backstage and finds Armie sitting on his phone in his dressing room, having already changed back into his own clothes: dark green t-shirt, jeans, flip flops. He looks up at Timmy when he hears him come in. 

“Hey,” Armie says, his voice a little rough, worn out. 

Timmy stands there by the door, feeling a thousand things at once. “Hi,” he says. 

He moves slowly, crossing the room and sitting down on the small couch across from where Armie sits in front of the mirror. 

They just look at each other in the bright but forgiving light of the vanity for a long time. Timmy knows he needs to speak first, but there are too many words in his throat. 

“You were… _incredible_ ,” he says finally. 

Armie makes a face, gives half a shrug. 

Timmy shakes his head as if he might be able to shake his thoughts into order. “We’ve been apart for a long time,” he starts, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth. “And I guess I’ve been scared that things would be different, that it wouldn’t be easy to be with you like it was before, and it’s not.” 

Armie opens his mouth to say something, but Timmy keeps going, needing to get the words out before he loses whatever scarce amount of courage he’s managed to find. 

“It’s not easy like it was before. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because my head has literally been in an entirely different century for the last three months. Maybe it’s because we’ve both been doing these projects that require so much of ourselves so it feels like we have less to give each other. Maybe it’s just exhaustion and anxiety and my own fucking hang ups, but it’s harder now. It feels harder.” 

Timmy forces himself to keep looking into Armie’s crestfallen face.

“But you are the most important thing to me, and I really want to work for this, for us. Seeing you on stage tonight, I loved you more than I’ve loved anyone in my entire life.”

He stops talking and finally breathes. 

There is a small smile on Armie’s face now. 

“Are you done?” he asks, raising his eyebrows. 

“I’m done,” Timmy answers, raising his hands. 

Armie nods. “I love you,” he says, leaning forward so his face is close to Timmy’s. “You’re a permanent thing for me. Whatever work needs to be done, we’ll do it together.” 

Timmy closes the distance between them, kissing Armie with every ounce of feeling he has in his body. 

****

Later, in Armie’s hotel, Timmy is sprawled naked across the bed, sweating and coming down from his third orgasm of the night. 

Armie stands out on the balcony smoking a cigarette in his underwear. 

Timmy watches Armie, thinking about how he gets to taste every part of him, thinking about how he’d shined up on that stage tonight, how he shines everywhere. 

He calls to him through the open sliding door, “Babe,” heat spreading through him when Armie looks over his shoulder at him, smiling, smoke curling out of his mouth. “I think I’m ready to go again.”

The dark glint in Armie’s eyes as he drops his cigarette and walks back into the room. “Oh yeah?” he asks, towering over Timmy, eyes moving over his body. 

“Yeah,” Timmy says and pulls him down. 

****  
At 3 AM, he fumbles for his phone in the pile of his clothes next to the bed. He has a handful of texts from Saoirse:

_i said CALL ME_  
_i’m going to assume this means your night’s going well_  
_or you got murdered_  
_did you get murdered??_  
_murdered by DICK am i right? ;) ;)_  
_okay but seriously call me i need to know everything_  
_IF YOU DON’T CALL ME IN THE MORNING I WILL NOTIFY THE POLICE_  
_can you read this text exchange and please tell me if this girl is flirting with me or not_  
_i love you so much pony i’m glad we’re friends_  
_caaaallll meeeeeeee_  
_brunch tomorrow???_  


He glances over at Armie who is naked and sound asleep on his stomach, the pale white skin of his ass almost glowing in the light coming through the window. He fights the urge to sink his teeth into that skin, wake him, get them started up all over again. 

He shoots Saoirse a quick series of texts: 

_sorry i was busy getting fucked until i literally couldn’t see straight or walk straight or sit down or really do anything at all. details at eleven._  
_this girl is 100% flirting with you. but it’s cute that you think she might not be._  
_i love you too. definitely brunch tomorrow. friendly reminder that “bottomless” refers to the drinks, not your attire._

****

He wakes up after eight hours of solid, dreamless sleep, and Armie is still next to him, awake and sitting up in bed, reading the newspaper. 

The room smells like fresh coffee and oranges and Timmy turns his head to kiss Armie’s bicep. 

“Good morning,” Timmy says, stretching luxuriously, but then groaning. “I’m sore as hell, dude. Like, all over.” 

Armie looks over at him with a warm smile. “Price you pay for a night like that,” he says. 

Timmy rolls over so his entire body is pressing against Armie’s side. He pushes his hips against Armie’s thigh, and Armie laughs. 

“You just said you were sore,” he says, slipping his hand under the covers.

“I’m also 22 and haven’t seen my boyfriend in months,” he says, pushing himself up into Armie’s hand. But then he rolls away from Armie and disappears under the comforter, settling his body between Armie’s thighs. 

“Fair enough,” Armie manages to grit out as Timmy’s mouth finds him. 

****

It’s a two show day for Armie so after he comes in Timmy’s mouth, he has to get ready to go. 

Timmy sits on the bed drinking coffee and watching Armie get dressed. 

“I’m really happy I’m home,” he says as Armie is combing his fingers through his wet hair. 

Armie stops and walks over to him, bends down, kisses him. “I’m really happy you’re happy,” he says. “Also, you’re never allowed to leave again.” 

Timmy slides his hand into the back pocket of Armie’s jeans, his legs wrapping around Armie’s thighs. “Not going anywhere,” he says, looking up at Armie, being kissed again.


End file.
